Error
by Nnoitra-Szayel
Summary: "spoilers" for the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is gone, and all John can think about is what life was like with him. He refuses to believe that the consulting detective is dead, and texts him everyday. Heavy on the angst; keep the tissues nearby!


_A/N: A portion of John's dialogue in this belongs to the BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, etc. because it was just too beautiful to change._

_**This contains "spoilers" for the episode of the Reichenbach Fall**_

It was quiet when John arrived back at 221B. The steps creaked under his feet when he walked up the steps as they usually did, but when he reached the landing at the top, there was no Sherlock sitting on the sofa or at the kitchen table. Pain slashed through John's chest like a white hot knife. He was really gone… dead… Tears pricked at his eyes, and his leg shook a bit under him.

The army doctor moved slowly through the sitting room and sat down in the armchair. Everything seemed to jump out at him at once; the skull that sat on the mantle, the books that Sherlock has recently read, the newspaper that had been crumpled slightly before being discarded on the table, the lab equipment that still sat on the kitchen table, the chair still pulled out slightly as though waiting for Sherlock to come back and sit down to continues his latest experiment. John put his head in his hands. How could he even begin to go through everything? How could he possibly decide what to keep? Sherlock Holmes was dead. His best friend was now lying a slab in St. Bartholomew's mortuary. Cold. Just the way John felt.

John didn't know how long he stayed like that, but at some point Mrs. Hudson had come in and put a blanket over his shoulders and a cup of tea in front of him. That was now cold, too. How long had he been sitting there? A few hours? A few days? He didn't know. He found that he didn't care.

A week went by and it was time for the funeral. He dressed in silence; his best suit, just for Sherlock. He picked up the skull off the mantle, walked downstairs, and out onto Baker Street. It was different without Sherlock. There was no sense of urgency; no case that needed to be solved. He decided he didn't want to take a cab, and started walking down the street. It wasn't long before a sleek black car pulled up and stopped beside him.

John knew he had no choice and opened the door. He got in and sat beside Mycroft, holding the skull in his lap. The car started moving again and the two men sat in silence. After a few minutes, Mycroft passed an envelope to John. The former army doctor hesitated before opening it, recognizing Sherlock's flourished and arrogant script. With a shaking hand, he unsealed it and pulled out the piece of paper within;

_I, Sherlock Holmes, in this last will and testament, leave all of my possessions to John Hamish Watson. He shall also receive full control of my bank account, of which the balance is currently just under four (4) million pounds. I leave him 221B, and ask him to take care of Mrs. Hudson. Please don't throw out my skull. My collection of shock blankets is still at the bottom of my wardrobe, and I last left your gun between my mattress and box spring. You can give the body parts back to Molly. Keep what you want, or keep none of it, but it's all yours, John._

The doctor folded the piece of paper and wiped a tear off his cheek. So many things were running through his head; Sherlock had left everything to him, Sherlock had nearly four million pounds in his bank account, what the hell did he need a flat mate for? Oh.

Sherlock had been lonely, too.

.

.

.

Loads of people had showed up to the service; Lestrade, Molly, Angelo, people Sherlock had saved and helped, Sherlock's mother… They all talked for a bit about the consulting detective and how he had helped them. Everyone except John. He didn't think he could stand up there and explain what Sherlock was to him. How could anyone possibly understand everything the detective had done for him? How could he possibly tell people that Sherlock was his best and closest friend? John couldn't think the words _had been_. Sherlock still was his best friend. No one would ever be able to take that away from him.

The congregation moved outside, and John moved with them. He watched as they lowered the dark mahogany coffin into the ground. He watched as they refilled the hole with dirt. He could hear those around him crying, but John couldn't. Not in front of all these people.

The doctor could only stare at the onyx grave stone that read _Sherlock Holmes_ in simple gold block letters. Did Sherlock like gold? Would he have wanted his headstone to be onyx? John took a shuddering breath. He didn't know. And he'd never get the chance to ask.

Once the hole was filled, gradually, everyone left. John remained where he was, right in front of the freshly laid dirt. Soon it was only Mrs Hudson and John left.

"I'll be along." He told her quietly. Sniffing into her handkerchief she turned and left him to pay his respects.

John took a deep breath and blinked back a few tears. Now that he had this, he wasn't quite sure what to say. "Um… mm… you… you told me once, that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times when I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human… human being that I've ever known, and no one will be able to convince me that you told me a lie. So… there…" John paused and took a deep breath. His tongue felt like a heavy lead weight in his sandpaper mouth, and he was fighting back tears.

He looked back to make sure Mrs Hudson had gone before stepping forward and resting his hand on top of the headstone. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much…" He turned away and started walking, but didn't get very far before turning back around. "There's just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me… Don't. Be. Dead." The last word was very quiet, and he was so close to crying that his voice nearly cracked.

Taking another deep breath, voice thick with tears he asked, "Would you do that… just for me? Just stop it… _stop this_." John bowed his head and took a few deep, shuddering breaths as the tears rolled down his face and his shoulders shook with sobs that threatened to break free. John sniffed and straightened himself, taking another deep breath and gave a small nod to the tree behind the stone, as if to assure himself that he was okay. Turning slowly on his heel, he walked away from the stone with a slight limp in his step. As he left, he didn't notice Sherlock watching from the side of the cemetery. John's focus was straight ahead; on making it out with running back and clinging to the cold, dark stone that bore the name of his best friend.

.

.

.

He tried staying at the flat. He tried staying at Harry's. He even tried staying at Lestrade's for a night. Nothing worked. Every night, he would have nightmares. Sometimes they were about the war, but most of the time they were about Sherlock, lying there with his lifeblood pooling out onto the sidewalk. Sherlock, standing on the roof, looking down at him, _reaching _for him, and then jumping. John would always wake up from these cold and with tears on his face. There were other times, when he would be at the flat, and he'd think that he heard a gunshot, or the sound of the violin only to go running downstairs and find the place empty.

Eventually, John gave up on trying to find a different place to stay, and took up permanent residence at 221B again. He would find body parts in the fridge when making breakfast, he would find folders of old cases hidden among books, and one day he even found Irene Adler's phone while looking for his laptop charger. Often times, John wouldn't even bother trying to fall asleep. He would just sit on the sofa, covered in a shock blanket, the skull on the table next to him, his mobile clutched in his hand, and wait to become so exhausted sleep just happened. Every time he turned the telly on, he imagined Sherlock telling him how it was annoying him while he was trying to think. Every time he would post an entry on his blog about how much he missed Sherlock, he could imagine the detective telling him how sentimental he was being.

After a particularly rough evening in which he had ordered Chinese not just for himself, but for Sherlock, too, John had started drinking. He had moved from the table to the sofa with his fourth glass, and picked up his mobile.

_Send to: Sherlock Holmes_

_ 3 Feb. 2012 11:43 PM_

_ I miss you. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:44 PM_

_Please come back. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 3 Feb. 2012 11:45 PM_

_ I need you. - JW_

_** [error. number not in use]**_

_ 3 Feb. 2012 11:46 PM_

_ What am I supposed to do with out my best friend? - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

__Tears were staring to spring to his tired eyes.

_3 Feb. 2012 11:47 PM_

_You can't be dead. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:48 PM_

_Prove me wrong. Please. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:48 PM_

_I'll let you call me an idiot. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:49 PM_

_It's quiet here without you. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:50 PM_

_Sherlock, please. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_3 Feb. 2012 11:50 PM_

_Just one more miracle…. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

John set his phone aside with a shaking hand. It didn't mean Sherlock was dead… he just had a new phone with a different number… that was all… that was all…

.

.

.

Months went by. Lestrade left Scotland Yard and opened his own private detective agency. When he offered John a job there, he had reluctantly said yes. Solving cases without Sherlock just didn't seem right, and as such he didn't take many. The ones that he did take often reminded him too much of the days he and Sherlock would run through the streets chasing cabs or running from criminals. He found the echoes of Sherlock's presence everywhere he went. Everything still hurt. Where ever the consulting detective was, he would most certainly be ranting about how John didn't need his cane because the limp was psychosomatic. John knew that. But it didn't ease the pain in his leg or his cane less necessary.

.

.

.

A year later, John was still just as lost. He would go to Angelo's and sit at the table for hours without doing anything. He would just look out onto the streets of London. He wondered what Sherlock used to see when he would look out this window. It only hurt when he turned to the empty seat next to him and remembered he would never find out.

.

.

.

**15 January, 2013 - 3:47 PM **

Sherlock, it's been one year. Please, come back.

I need you… I miss you…

You're still my best friend.

.

.

.

_Send to: Sherlock Holmes_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:34 PM_

_ I need you, Sherlock. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:37 PM_

_ Please. Harry's dying. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:41 PM_

_ I could use a friend. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:45 PM_

_ My best friend. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:49 PM_

_ Her liver's failing. There's nothing they can do. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 6:55 PM_

_ How many more people do I have to lose? - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 16 Jan. 2013 7:03 PM_

_ If you're really up there… can you… can you tell her I love her? - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_16 Jan. 2013 7:11 PM_

_ You'd know exactly what to say to calm me down if you were here. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

__.

.

.

That night, John came home and drank a bottle of old Brandy. He didn't even like Brandy, it was just what was there. Half the bottle was gone before he got up from the chair at the kitchen table and limped to the door that led to Sherlock's room. It had remained shut all this time. Now, the doctor opened it and walked in. It was still as neat as it had been before he had died… No. Before he left. Sherlock couldn't be dead. Sherlock was going to come back.

John set the bottle down on the bedside table and skimmed his fingers over the smooth fabric of the bedspread. Slowly, he sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the edge of the mattress. Maybe if he fell asleep here, he would wake up and Sherlock would be back to chastise him for falling asleep on his bedroom floor…

.

.

.

More months went by, and John was on a case for Lestrade. He just had to drop off some papers, and was waiting on the street corner for the light to change. That was when he saw it. A cab on the other side of the street… in the back was the silhouette of a tall, thin man with curly hair. Looking at him. It had to be…

"Sherlock!" He yelled. The cab started to move forward. No. John was not going to let this happen. He ran after it, just as he would have run after Sherlock without his limp inhibiting him. "Sherlock!" He yelled again.

The cab slowed down, but the man in the back seat waved the driver on. John continued running as the cab sped up, out of his reach… around the corner… away… far, far away…

He stopped, out of breath, as the cab disappeared out of sight. Tears in his eyes, he sat down on the curb and broke down, sobbing.

How much longer did this have to go on?

_He's never coming back, he's dead. _The nasty voice in his head told him.

John only sobbed harder.

.

.

.

_Send to: Sherlock Holmes_

_ 31 July 2013 8:54 PM_

_ You're never around to tell me when we're out of milk. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_31 July 2013 8:59 PM_

_ I went to Bart's today. - JW _

_** [error. number not in use]**_

_ 31 July 2013 9:04 PM_

_ I've got a pill, Sherlock. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 31 July 2013 9:17 PM_

_ I've been thinking about taking it for a while now. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 31 July 2013 9:24 PM_

_ I can't take this anymore. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 31 July 2013 9:25 PM_

_ Please come back… - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 31 July 2013 9:36 PM_

_ Please… - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

.

.

.

**5****November 2013 - 5:43 PM**

You were the best friend I ever could have asked for.

.

.

.

Two more years went by, and John didn't hear another whisper of Sherlock, except the tricks his mind played on him. He had rearranged some things, and gotten rid of body parts as they had started to rot, but nothing else had been gotten rid of. The skull, a box of nicotine patches, and the violin occupied the mantle; a silent shrine to the consulting detective.

Molly and Lestrade came by every so often to see how he was doing. Even Mycroft would stop by the flat to make sure he was doing as well as he could. John had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room, because it made him feel closer to his friend. Since he was virtually unemployed, he had taken to reading the books Sherlock had kept around the flat. John would read the book and the corrections that went with them. Sherlock had scribbled in every book in the flat except for the few that John had brought with him. Sometimes he would read a particularly long comment and have to stop reading, because it was just so much _Sherlock _that he could hear it in the man's voice and it was too hard to take in.

John would have his bad days. He would still drink most nights, and he never, ever stopped texting Sherlock.

.

.

.

_Send to: Sherlock Holmes_

_ 21 Jan. 2015 5:46 PM_

_ I still miss you. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]** _

_ 21 Jan. 2015 5:53 PM_

_ Terribly. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 21 Jan. 2015 5:59 PM_

_ Can I just see you one last time? Please? - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 21 Jan. 2015 6:09 PM_

_ There were so many things I wanted to say. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

_ 21 Jan. 2015 6:15 PM_

_ I love you. - JW_

_ **[error. number not in use]**_

.

.

.

Exactly three years, two months, sixteen days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes after Sherlock had jumped off the top of the hospital, John sat in the lab of St. Bartholomew's hospital, safely three floors below the roof. Molly had asked him to come in for lunch, but she had yet to show up. He had chosen to sit in the chair in front of the microscope that Sherlock had so often occupied. He wondered how many hundreds of cases Sherlock had solved using this device alone, and was struck again with the fact that he would never know and would never be able to ask.

The door to the lab opened and someone walked in, but John kept his eyes on the microscope. He didn't want to have to deal with Molly asking him if he was okay again. Today just wasn't one of his good days… then again, he didn't really have good days. He had bad days, and he had horrible days.

"John," said the person who had entered.

The army doctor froze. The same inflection… the same baritone… _impossible…_ His head snapped up in the direction of the door. And, sure enough, there stood Sherlock Holmes, hair still dark and curly, long black coat and familiar blue scarf still intact if a bit worse for wear. He put one hand on the table before standing, not trusting his legs.

"S-sherlock…?"

"I'm sorry." Sherlock would quite meet John's eyes.

John lurched forward and threw his arms out, hoping that he didn't fall through what appeared to be Sherlock and straight to the floor. Surprised, Sherlock caught him. John had never been so relieved to feel Sherlock's thin frame before.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He was met with the scent of cigarette smoke and tea. Exactly the way John remembered. They stood there for what seemed like forever, neither one pulling apart from the other. John didn't care how Sherlock had done it. He didn't care at all. This was his miracle; Sherlock was back. That was all that mattered. He'd hear the story later. He'd find out where Sherlock had been, and why he'd disappeared for three years. And, yeah, maybe John would get angry, but that wouldn't matter either, because Sherlock was still John's best friend, and John was still Sherlock's only friend.

And everything would be okay again, so long as they had each other.


End file.
